A lone soldier in a war zone street faces passive resistance. How does he deal with it? A gripping short story by Meher – exclusively for Different Truths.
The lone soldier hesitated to enter the empty street. Measured steps took him in, footstep after footstep, eyes darting from road to rooftop and back, gun pointing this way and that. The eerie silence was broken only by the clomp of his heavy boots. He felt a thousand eyes tearing into his skin from barred windows. Soldiers can’t be afraid; he reminded himself.
Another sound. The creak of a door opening. Instinctively the soldier raised his gun. A man, arms folded over his chest, stood rigid against a door, staring. He looked like the soldier’s elder brother: same height, same broad shoulders, same brown hair.
“There’s curfew! Go indoors!” shouted the soldier. The man did not move. “I have shoot-at-sight orders! Go back!”
No change in the man’s position. The soldier’s lip quivered. He had never killed anyone. But he had orders to obey.
A shaky finger pressed a trigger, a gun aimed at the air. Silence split by a whizzing bullet.
A shaky finger pressed a trigger, a gun aimed at the air. Silence split by a whizzing bullet. Still, the man did not move. Was he a devil? Suicidal? How could he remain immobile in the face of danger?
His family is behind the door, thought the soldier. Mother? Wife? Children? His mother was safely far away. Would he have the guts to protect her as this man was doing? He pushed the thought away. This was no time for weakness. His orders were clear. No one was to break curfew.
He levelled his gun and shot. A red blotch appeared on the man’s shoulder. The door behind him opened, and he was pulled in. Within seconds another man took his place, arms folded identically across his chest.
Was he hallucinating? The gun prevented him from rubbing his eyes. The barrel was still warm. Hadn’t he wounded the man? Why would another take his place, knowing he might be shot?
The second man resembled the first.
The second man resembled the first. Only his shirt was black, not blue. He stood in the same defiant position. Silent. Defiance began to unnerve the soldier. His lip trembled as he ordered, “Go inside! Curfew!”
Was the man deaf? Was the whole family deaf? Were they all mad? Did they not realise there was a war? That they could be killed for defying authority!
Authority…? What authority? He was the son of an ordinary farmer. He had joined the army because of his interest in martial arts. Only his uniform gave him authority. As a representative of the army, his was a voice to be obeyed.
He was trained to obey seniors. In three years, no thought of defiance entered his head. How to quell defiance and bring rebelling citizens under control? How to deal with a single man standing alone in the street during curfew?
Why was this street so quiet when the whole town was in disarray?
Why was this street so quiet when the whole town was in disarray? About a hundred meters away, the black-shirted man gestured for him to come forward. What did he want? Was it a trap to avenge the wounded man?
Fear gripped his throat. Though the man’s bearing was not menacing, the soldier could not trust him. But he was curious about this family of lunatics. He took a few cautious steps, then marched towards the man appearing far more confident than he felt. His heart was thumping.
As he drew close, the man lowered his arms from his chest. The soldier did not lower his gun — a wary appraisal of each other. Then the man turned, reached for a knob, and opened the door. A stream of light poured out. The man stepped inside, beckoning the soldier to follow.
Fear gripped his throat as he struggled against the impulse to run — his training. A soldier does not run away from danger. Raising the gun to his shoulder protectively, he approached the open door. As he stepped into the room, the door shut gently behind him.
The room held three women and half a dozen men.
The room held three women and half a dozen men. All are sitting quietly facing a resplendent Madonna, white veil draped over a blue cape, hand raised in blessing. Three red candles glowed in a makeshift altar at her feet. A musky fragrance hovered in the air.
It was the Madonna of his village church. He had knelt before her a thousand times – when his mother was ill, when his brother lost his job, and even before the army entrance tests. He stood paralysed, mouth agape, a mind trapped in a whirl of memories.
“Ask her to protect you,” murmured the man behind him.
The soldier dropped his gun, kneeling.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
By
By
By
By
A very well crafted, idealistic allegory.